Then he walked away, whistling, with his hands in his pockets. 'There
are more cherries on the tree than that on the topmost twig,' he said to
himself in a tone of dissatisfaction. 'If Honor can't be pleasant
others are not so particular.'
Larry Nanspian was a spoiled lad. The girls of Bratton made much of
him. He was a fine young man, and he was heir to a good estate. The
girls not only did not go out of their way to avoid him, but they threw
themselves, unblushingly, ostentatiously in his path; and their efforts
to catch him were supported by their mothers. The girls hung about the
lanes after church hoping to have a word with him, and sighed and cast
him languishing glances during Divine worship. Their mothers flattered
him. This was enough to make the lad conceited. Only Honor kept away
from him. She scarcely looked at him, and held him at a distance. The
other girls accepted his most impudent sallies without offence; he did
not venture a jest with Honor. Her refusal of the homage which he had
come to regard as his due piqued him, and forced him to think of Honor
more often than of any other girl in the place. He did not know his own
mind about her, whether he liked or whether he disliked her, but he knew
that he was chagrined at her indifference.
Sulky, he sauntered on to Broadbury, towards Wellon's Cairn. The moor
was stretched around, unbroken by a hedge, or wall, or tree. Before him
rose the Tumulus. 'Hah!' he said to himself, 'she was ready to talk to
me here; we were to have been good friends, but that cursed White Hare
brought us all ill-luck.'
As he spoke to his surprise he saw something white emerge from the
cutting in the side. He stood still, and in a moment Mrs. Veale leaped
out of the hollow, went over the side, and disappeared down a dyke that
ran in the direction of Langford.
The apparition and disappearance were so sudden, the sight of the woman
so surprising, that Hillary was hardly sure he was in his senses, and
not the prey to a hallucination. He was made very uncomfortable by what
he had seen, and instead of going on towards the mound, he turned and
walked away.
'This is wonderful,' he said. 'Whatever could take Mrs. Veale to
Wellon's Cairn? If it were she--and I'd not take my oath on it--I'm too
bewildered to guess her purpose.'
He halted and mused. 'I always said she was a witch, and now I believe
it. She's been there after her devilries, to get some bones or dust of
the gibbeted man, or a link of his chain, to work some further
wickedness with. I'll see Honor again, I will, for all the airs she
gives herself, and warn her not to sit on Wellon's mount. It's not
safe.'
*CHAPTER XII.*
*LANGFORD.*
Honor put on her hat and threw a kerchief over her shoulders, and took
her little brother Willy by the hand.
'Whither are you going, Honor?' asked Kate.
'I am going to find a place for Charles, as he will not seek one for
himself. I have turned him out of this house, and must secure him
shelter elsewhere.'
'Who will have him?' asked Kate contemptuously. She was less forbearing
with Charles than Honor. Honor did not answer immediately.
'Try Chimsworthy,' suggested Kate; 'Larry would put in a word for us.'
Honor slightly coloured. She put on her red cloak.
'I cannot, Kate. Larry and Charles have quarrelled.'
'Larry bears no grudges. I will answer for him.'
'I do not wish to ask a favour of the Nanspians.'
'Why not?'
Honor made no reply. She clasped the child's hand tightly and closed
her lips. Then, without another word, she left the cottage. Kate
shrugged her shoulders.
Honor went slowly up the lane to Broadbury; she did not speak to her
little brother her head was slightly bowed, she was deep in thought, and
hectic spots of colour tinged her cheeks.
'What! Honor, in your scarlet!' exclaimed Larry. She looked up in
surprise. He had come up to Broadbury the second time that day, drawn
there irresistibly by desire to see Honor. He thought it probable, as
the day was fine, that she would go there with her knitting.
'What has brought you to Broadbury in this array, Honor?' asked Hillary,
standing before her, and intercepting her path.
'I am on my road to Langford,' answered the girl with composure.
'Take care, Honor, take care where you go. There is a witch there, Mrs.
Veale; if you get in her bad books you will rue it. I have seen her
to-day at Wellon's Cairn gathering the dead man's dust, out of which to
mix some hell-potion.'
Honor shook her head.
'It is true,' said Hillary earnestly; 'she jumped and ran--and her ways
were those of that white hare we saw at the mound. Nothing will now
persuade me that she was not that hare. Do not go on, Honor; leave
Langford alone. No luck awaits you there.'
'Nonsense, Larry, you cannot have seen Mrs. Veale up here.'
'I tell you that I did. I saw something white hopping and running, and
I am sure it was she in the hole scooped by the treasure-seekers.'
'What can she have wanted there?'
'What but the dust of old Wellon? And what good can she do with that?
None--she needs it only for some devilry. Do not go near her, Honor; I
have come here on purpose to warn you that the woman is dangerous.'
'I must go on,' said Honor. 'It is kind of you, Larry, but I have
business which I must do at Langford. I have never harmed Mrs. Veale,
and she will not want to hurt me, But now, Larry, let me say that I am
sorry if I offended you this morning. I spoke rather rough, because I
was afraid of a quarrel and a fight between you and Charles. Do not
take it amiss. Now do not stay me, I must go forward.'
'I will let you go on one promise--that you will not cross Mrs. Veale.'
He caught her hand.
'How can I give offence to her? She is nothing to me, nor I to her.
You must really make way, Larry.'
He shook his head. 'I don't like it,' he said; but he could not further
stay her.
Langford lies under the brow of Broadbury, looking over the tossing
sea-like expanse of hill and dale. It lies at a very considerable
elevation, nearly a thousand feet above the sea, and to protect it from
the weather is covered with slate, as though mail-clad. Few trees stand
about it affording shelter. Honor walked through the yard to the door
and thrice knocked. Very tardy was the reply. Mrs. Veale opened the
door, and stood holding it with one hand, barring the entrance with her
body and the other hand. She was in a light cotton dress, from which
the colours had been washed. Her face, her eyes, her hair had the same
bleached appearance. Her eyelashes were white, overhanging faded eyes,
to which they gave a blinking uncertain look.
'What do you want?' asked the housekeeper, looking at her with surprise
and with flickering eyes.
'I have come to see Mr. Langford,' answered Honor; 'is your master at
home?'
'My _master_, oh yes!' with a sneer, 'my master is at home--my mistress
not yet. Oh no! not yet.'
'I want to see him.'
'You do? Come, this is sharp, quick work. You follow one on another as
April on March.'
Honor did not understand her. She thought the woman was out of her
mind. She made no reply, but looking firmly at her, said, 'I will go
into the kitchen and sit down till your master is disengaged. Is he in
the house now?'
'You know he is, and you know who is with him.'
Honor drew her brother after her, and entered. She was too proud to
give the woman words.
'What do you want? Where are you going?' asked the housekeeper,
standing aside to let Honor pass, but casting at her a look so full of
malevolence, that Honor turned down her thumb in her palm instinctively
to counteract the evil eye. Honor took a kitchen chair and seated
herself. 'I will wait here,' she said, 'till Mr. Langford can see me.'
Mrs. Veale stood, still holding the door, looking at her, her white face
quivering, her eyes flickering. The child, startled, crept close to his
sister, and clung to her.
Mrs. Veale came forward, without removing her eyes from the girl. 'Take
care!' she said in a husky voice. 'Take care! you are not here yet.'
Then Honor laughed.
'Not here, Mrs. Veale? What do you mean? I am here.'
Before the housekeeper could speak again men's voices were audible in
the passage, and, to her astonishment, Honor recognised that of her
father. She rose at once, and confronted him and Taverner Langford as
they entered the kitchen.
'What--you here?' exclaimed Oliver Luxmore with undisguised
astonishment. 'Why, Honor, what in the world has drawn you to Langford?
I did not know that you and Mrs. Veale were friends.'
'I have come to speak to Mr. Langford,' was her reply, spoken quietly;
'but I am glad, father, that you are here, as I should prefer to speak
before you. May we go into the parlour?'
She looked at Mrs. Veale, as much as to say that she did not care to
speak before witnesses.
'Mrs. Veale,' said Langford, with a sharp tone, 'I heard steps from the
parlour door two minutes ago. I object to listeners at key-holes. Do
you understand?'
He did not wait for an answer, but turned and led the way down the
passage he and Luxmore had just emerged from.
Little Willy uttered a cry. 'Don't leave me with the old woman, please,
please, Honor!'
'You shall come with me,' answered the girl, and she drew the child with
her into the parlour.
'Here we are,' said Taverner, shutting the door. 'Take a seat, take a
seat! The little boy can find a stool at the window.'
'Thank you, Mr. Langford, I will not detain you five minutes. I prefer
to stand. I am glad my father is here. Doubtless he has come on the
same matter as myself.'
The two men exchanged glances.
'I have come to ask you to try Charles,' she continued. 'Some little
while ago you told father that you wanted a man to act as drover for
you. I have not heard that you have met with such a servant. Try my
brother Charles. He is doing no work now, and Satan sets snares in the
way of the idle. If you will please to give him a chance, you will
confer on us a great favour, and be doing a good work as well, for which
the Lord will reward you.'
'That is what has brought you here?' asked the yeoman.
'Yes, sir.'
'Have you heard it said throughout the country that I am not a man to
grant favours?'
'I do not heed what folks say. Besides, I know that this is not so.
You have already acted very kindly to us. You lent father a very good
horse.'
'Why have you not applied elsewhere? at Chimsworthy, for instance.'
'Because I do not wish to be beholden to the Nanspians, sir,' answered
Honor.
'You do not approve of your sister keeping company with that Merry
Andrew,' said Taverner approvingly.
'She does not keep company with him,' answered the girl gravely.
At any rate she lets him dance after her, draws him on. Well, well! it
is natural, perhaps. But don't advise her to be too eager. Young Larry
is not so great a catch as some suppose, and as he and his father give
out. Look at Chimsworthy--a wilderness of thistles, and rushes springing
where grass grew to my recollection. There is no saying, some day you
may be seated at Coombe Park, and then the Nanspians will be below you.'
'Coombe Park!' echoed Honor, looking at her father, then at old
Langford. 'Surely, sir, you think nothing of that! Do not encourage
father in that fancy; we never were and never will be at Coombe Park.'
'Honor!' exclaimed Oliver Luxmore, working his feet uneasily under the
table, 'there you are wrong. The Luxmores have had it for many
generations. You have only to look in the registers to see that.'
'Yes, father, some Luxmores have been there, but not our Luxmores as far
as we know. I wish you would not trouble your head about Coombe Park.
We shall never get it. I doubt if we have a thread of a right to it.
If we have, I never saw it.'
'We shall see, we shall see,' said the carrier. 'Girls haven't got
lawyers' minds, and don't follow evidence.'
'I have undertaken to go with your father to Lawyer Physick at
Okehampton,' said Taverner Langford, 'and to help him to have his right
examined.'
'Nothing can come of it but heart-breakings,' sighed Honor; 'father will
slip certainties to seize shadows.'
'I have nothing to lose,' said Oliver, 'and much to gain.'
Honor knew it was in vain to attempt to disabuse him of his cherished
delusion. She so far shared his views as to believe that the family had
gentle blood in their veins, and were descended somehow, in some vague,
undefined manner, from the Luxmores of Coombe Park, through, perhaps,
some younger son of a junior branch, and she liked to suppose that the
beauty and superiority of manner in her brothers and sisters were due to
this, but she did not share in her father's expectations of recovering
the property. Her understanding was too clear to harbour this.
'I will go back to what I asked of Mr. Langford,' she said, after a
pause. 'Will you take my brother Charles into your service, sir? He
wants a firm hand over him. He is not bad at heart, but he is infirm of
purpose, easily led astray. If he were here with you, he would be far
from the "Ring of Bells," and his work would sever him from idle
companions.'
'So, you don't want him to be at Chimsworthy?'
'I do not desire to be under obligation there.'
'You have no objection to placing yourself under obligation to me?'
Honor did not like the tone. She did not understand his returning to
the same point; she turned uneasily to her father, and asked him to put
in a word for poor Charles.
'Mr. Langford is more likely to grant a boon to you than to me,'
answered Oliver evasively.
'Sit down, Honor,' he said. 'You have remained standing the whole time
you have been here.'
'I have been making a request,' she answered.
'The request is granted. Sit down.'
She was reluctant, yet unwilling to disoblige.
Oliver signed to her to take a place. She obeyed. She was
uncomfortable. There was an indefinable something in the way in which
the old yeoman looked at and addressed her, something equally
indefinable in her father's manner, that combined to disturb her.
Mrs. Veale came in on some excuse, to ask her master a question, with
her white eyelashes quivering. She cast a sidelong glance at Honor full
of malice, as she entered. When she left the room she did not shut the
door, and the girl saw her white face and flickering eyes turned towards
her, watching her out of the darkness of the passage. She was for a
moment spellbound, but recovered herself when Taverner Longford, with an
impatient exclamation, slammed the door.
'I shall be glad to be rid of the old prying cat,' he said.
'Is Mrs. Veale going to leave you?' asked Honor. Then she caught her
father and Langford exchange glances, and her brow became hot--she
hardly knew wherefore.
'I am thinking of a change,' said the yeoman.
'I hope you are going to have as good a housekeeper,' said Honor; 'a
better you cannot have.'
'Oh!' he laughed, 'a better, certainly, and--what is quite as certain--a
prettier one. If I had not been sure of that, I would not have----' He
checked himself and nodded to the carrier, who laughed.
Honor looked from one to the other inquiringly, then asked somewhat
sternly, 'You would not have--what, Mr. Langford?'
'Humph! I would not have taken Charles.'
'What is the connection?' asked the girl.
'More things are connected than sleeve-links,' answered Langford. 'I
would not have let your father have the horse if you were thriftless at
home. I would not take Charles into service, unless I thought to find
in him some of the qualities of the sister.'
'Put my qualities, such as they are, on one side,' said Honor roughly.
'That,' said Langford, looking across at Luxmore, 'that is not to be
thought of.'
Then the carrier laughed nervously, and with a side glance at his
daughter.
Honor coloured. She was offended, but unable to say at what. She put
her hand on her little brother's head and stroked it nervously.
Then the yeoman began to talk to the carrier about his estate, the
quality of the land, his cows and horses, his woods, his pastures, the
money he was able to put away every year, and contrasted his style of
farming with that of the Nanspians at Chimsworthy. As he spoke he fixed
his eyes on Honor, to see if his wealth impressed her. But her face
expressed no concern. It was clouded; she was thinking, not listening.
All at once the insinuations of Mrs. Veale rushed into her mind. She
saw her meaning. She connected that with the looks of the two men.
Blood rushed to her face. She sprang to her feet. The room swam before
her eyes.
'I must go,' she said. 'I am wanted at home.'
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*THE REVEL.*
If to Sally in our alley and the apprentice who loved her, 'Of all the
days within the week there was no day but one day,' so to all the maids
and all the lads in country villages, in olden times, there was no day
in all the year that might compare with the day of the village Revel.
The Revel is now a thing of the past, or lingers on, a limp and faded
semblance of the robust festival that fifty years ago was looked forward
to through half the year, and looked back on through the other half, and
formed the topic of conversation for the entire twelve months.
On Revel day horse-races were run, got up by the village taverner, for a
plated mug or a punch ladle; wrestling matches were played for a
champion belt, booths were set up in streets of canvas and board for the
sale of brooches, ribbons, toys, sweetstuff, and saffron-cakes. There
were merry-go-rounds, peep-shows, menageries, and waxworks. The
cheap-jack was never wanting, the focus of merriment.
In and about 1849 the commons were enclosed on which the races had been
run, and the tents pitched, and gipsies had encamped. Magistrates,
squires, parsons, and police conspired against Revels, routed them out
of the field, and supplied their places with other
attractions,--cottage-garden shows, harvest thanksgivings, and school
teas.
Possibly there were objectionable features in those old Revels which
made their abolition advisable, but the writer remembers none of these.
He saw them through the eyes of a child, and recalls the childish
delight they afforded.
The day was clear and sunny. People streamed into Bratton Clovelly from
the country round, many on foot, others in gigs and carts, all in gayest
apparel. Honor had dressed the children neatly, had assumed her scarlet
cloak, and stood at the cottage door turning the key ready to depart
with the little eager company, when the tramp of a horse's hoof was
heard, and Larry Nanspian drew up before the house. He was driving his
dappled cob in the shafts of a two-wheeled tax-cart.
'What, Larry!' exclaimed Kate, 'mounted on high to display the flowery
waistcoat? Lost your legs that you cannot walk a mile?'
'Not a bit, sharp-tongue,' answered the young man, good-naturedly. 'I
have come round for Honor and you and the little ones.'
'We have feet, sixteen among us.'
'But the tiny feet will be tired with trotting all day. You will have
fairings moreover to bring home.'
'Thank you for the kind thought, Larry,' said Honor, softened by his
consideration and by the pleasant smile that attended his words. 'Kate
and I will walk, but we accept your offer for the children.'
'I cannot take them without you,' said the young man. 'I hold the whip
with one hand and the reins with the other. I have not a third
wherewith to control a load of wriggling worms.'
'Jump in, Honor,' said Kate; 'sit between me and the driver, to keep the
peace.'
The eldest sister packed the children in behind and before, then,
without more ado, ascended the seat by Larry, and was followed by Kate,
with elastic spring.
'Heigho!' exclaimed the young man, 'I reckon no showman at the Revel has
half so fine wares as myself to exhibit.'
'What, the waistcoat?' asked Kate, leaning forward to look in his face.
'No, not the waistcoat,' answered he; 'cutlery, keen and bright.'
'Your wit must have gone through much sharpening.'
'I do not allude to my wit. I mean the pretty wares beside me.'
'But, driver, the wares are not and never will be yours.'
As they drew near Bratton they heard a shout from behind, and turning
saw Taverner Langford driving in, with Mrs. Veale beside him, at a
rattling pace. Larry drew aside to let them pass; as they went by
Taverner looked keenly at Honor, and Mrs. Veale cast her a spiteful
glance, then turned to her master and whispered something.
'Upon my word!' exclaimed Larry, 'I've a mind to play a lark. Say
nothing, girls, but don't be surprised if we give Uncle Langford a
hare-hunt.'
He drew rein and went slow through the street of the 'church town.' The
street and the open space before the church gate were full of people.
It was, moreover, enlivened with booths. Larry was well content to
appear in state at the fair, driving instead of walking like a common
labourer, and driving with two such pretty girls as Honor and Kate at
his side. He contrasted his company to that of his uncle. 'I wonder my
uncle don't get rid of that Mrs. Veale. No wonder he has turned sour
with her face always before him.' He shouted to those who stood in the
road to clear the way; he cracked his whip, and when some paid no
attention brought the lash across their shoulders. Then they started
aside, whether angry or good-humoured mattered nothing to the
thoughtless lad.
He drew up before the 'Ring of Bells,' cast the reins to the ostler,
jumped out, and helped the sisters to descend, then lifted the children
down with a cheerful word to each.
The little party strolled through the fair. Honor holding Charity by her
left and Temperance by her right hand; but the crowd was too great for
the youngest to see anything. Honor stooped and took the little girl on
her right arm, but immediately Larry lifted the child from her to his
shoulder.
'See!' whispered Joe, holding a coin under Kate's eyes, 'Larry Nanspian
gived me this.'
'And I have something; too from him,' said Pattie.
'And so have I,' whispered Willy.
Honor pretended not to hear, but she was touched, and looked with kindly
eyes at the young man. He had his faults, his foolish vanity; but there
was good in him, or he would not trouble himself about the little ones.
She had not been able to give the children more than a penny each for
fairing. The village was thronged. The noise was great. The
cheap-jack shouted in a voice made hoarse by professional exercise. The
ringers had got to the bells in the church tower. At a stall was a man
with a gun, a target, and a tray of nuts, calling 'Only a halfpenny a
shot!' There was Charles there trying the gun, and his failures to hit
the bull's-eye elicited shouts of laughter, which became more boisterous
as he lost his temper. The barrel was purposely bent to prevent a level
shot reaching the mark. A boy paraded gaudy paper-mills on sticks that
whirled in the wind--only one penny each. A barrel organ ground forth,
'The flaxen-headed Plowboy,' and a miserable blinking monkey on it held
out a tin for coppers. Honor was so fully engrossed in the children,
watching that they did not stray, get knocked over or crushed, that she
had not attention to give to the sights of the fair; but Kate was all
excitement and delight. Larry kept near the sisters, but could not say
much to them: the noise was deafening and little Temperance exacting.
Presently the party drew up before a table behind which stood a man
selling rat poison. A stick was attached to the table, and to this stick
was affixed a board, above the heads of the people, on which was a
pictorial representation of rats and mice expiring in attitudes of
mortal agony. The man vended also small hones. He took a knife, drew
the edge of the blade over his thumb to show that it was blunt, then
swept it once, twice, thrice, this way, that way, on the bit of stone,
and see! he plucked a hair from his beard, and cut, and the blade
severed it. Fourpence for a small stone, six-pence, a shilling,
according to sizes. The coins were tossed on the table, and the hones
carried away.
'What is it, ma'am.--a hone?' asked the dealer.
'No, the poison.'
A white arm was thrust between those who lined the table. Hillary
turned, and saw Mrs. Veale.
'Keep it locked up, ma'am. There's enough in that packet to poison a
regiment.'
Whether a regiment of soldiers or of rats he did not explain.